i 


■  APRIL  AIRS 


BLISS  CARMAN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OW  IN 
EAMING 
fe SOUTH 

ro    BID 

IE    SUN 

H   HER 

iR    NEW 

ER  ROBE 


ND  ANE 

\LONG 

riru  ai    jlIP,   SHE 

HAUNTING    AIRS 


ORNING  CLAD 

READ, 

rIND  IN   HER  VOICE, 

HE  WORLD   REJOICE. 


[GHT  ON    HER   BROW, 
EIL  OF   SILVER  SHOWERS, 
NGLAND   NOW 
F    WOODLAND    FLOWERS,— 


ONE; 

HE  MISTY  SEA, 
3EMS  TO  BLOW 
F   LONG  AGO. 


APRIL   AIRS 


By  Bliss  Carman  and 
Richard  Hovey 

Songs  from  Vagabondia 
More  Songs  from  Vagabondia 
Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia 
Paper  boards,  per  volume,  Si.oo  net;  by 

mail,  Si. 05;  sold  separately 
Limp  leather,  boxed,  per  set,  $3.75  net; 

by  mail,  $3.90;  sold  only  in  sets 
Three  volumes  in  one,  in  three-quarters 
levant,  hand-tooled,  $7.50  net;  by  mail, 
$7.65  

By  Bliss  Carman 

April  Airs.      Paper   boards,  $1.00  net;  by 

mail,  $1.05.     Limp  leather,  $1.25  net;  by 

mail,  J1.30 
Echoes  from  Vagabondia.  Paper  boards,  Si.  00 

net;  by  mail,  $1.03.     Limp  leather,  $1.25 

net;  by  mail,  $1.30 
By  the  A  urelian  Wall.   Cloth,  $1 . 2  5,  postpaid 
A  Winter  Holiday.    Paper  boards,  75  cents, 

postpaid 
Low  Tide  on  Grand  PrS  and  Ballads  of  Lost 

Haven.     Portrait  frontispiece,  Strathmore 

Japan  boards,  Si. 50  net;  by  mail,  S1.60 


PUBLISHED  BY 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

BOSTON 


APRIL  AIRS 

A  Book  of  New  England  Lyrics 
BLISS    CARMAN 


BOSTON 
SMALL,    MAYNARD   AND    COMPANY 

MCMXVI 


Copyright,  1916 
By  Small,  Maynard  and  Company 

(incorporated) 


THE   UNIVERSITY  PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE,   U.S.A. 


?1? 

Ais 


TO  THE 

ELIZABETHAN  CLUB   OF  YALE  UNIVERSITY 

WITH  SINCERE  APPRECIATION 

THESE  VERSES  ARE  RESPECTFULLY 

DEDICATED 


jx624 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/aprilairsbookofnOOcarm 


CONTENTS 

THE   DESERTED   PASTURE  I 

THE   OLD   GRAY   WALL  2 

BLOODROOT  3 

EARTH    VOICES  4 

NOW   IS    THE   TIME   OF   YEAR  7 

NOW   THE   LILAC   TREE  'S   IN   BUD  8 

THE   REDWING  9 

AN   APRIL   MORNING  10 

THE   SOUL   OF   APRIL  II 

THE   RAINBIRD  12 

LAMENT  J3 

THRENODY   FOR   A   POET  13 

UNDER   THE   APRIL   MOON  14 

SPRING   NIGHT  IS 

IN   EARLY   MAY  15 

FIREFLIES  J6 

THE   GARDEN   OF  DREAMS  17 

GARDEN    SHADOWS  I 8 

GARDEN    MAGIC  1 9 

A   NEW    ENGLAND   JUNE  20 

ROADSIDE   FLOWERS  22 

THE   GARDEN    OF   SAINT   ROSE  23 
SONGS   OF   THE   GRASS  : 

1.  ON    THE   DUNES  25 

2.  LORD    OF   MORNING  25 

3.  THE  TRAVELLER 
THE  WEED'S  COUNSEL 
LOCKERBIE  STREET  29 
A  PORTRAIT  31 
A  REMEMBRANCE  32 
OFF  MONOMOY  33 
THE  WORLD  VOICE  3& 
PHI   BETA    KAPPA   POEM  36 

vii 


26 
26 


HE   DESERTED   PASTURE. 
LOVE  the  stony  pasture 
That  no  one  else  will  have. 
The  old  gray  rocks  so  friendly  seem, 
So  durable  and  brave. 


I 


In  tranquil  contemplation 
It  watches  through  the  year, 
Seeing  the  frosty  stars  arise, 
The  slender  moons  appear. 

Its  music  is  the  rain-wind, 

Its  choristers  the  birds, 

And  there  are  secrets  in  its  heart 

Too  wonderful  for  words. 

It  keeps  the  bright-eyed  creatures 
That  play  about  its  walls, 
Though  long  ago  its  milking  herds 
Were  banished  from  their  stalls. 

Only  the  children  come  there, 
For  buttercups  in  May, 
Or  nuts  in  autumn,  where  it  lies 
Dreaming  the  hours  away. 

Long  since  its  strength  was  given 
To  making  good  increase, 
And  now  its  soul  is  turned  again 
To  beauty  and  to  peace. 

There  in  the  early  springtime 
The  violets  are  blue, 
And  adder-tongues  in  coats  of  gold 
Are  garmented  anew. 


Th*  There  bayberry  and  aster 

pasture.     Are  crowded  on  its  floors, 

When  marching  summer  halts  to  praise 

The  Lord  of  Out-of-doors. 


And  there  October  passes 
In  gorgeous  livery, — 
In  purple  ash,  and  crimson  oak, 
And  golden  tulip  tree. 

And  when  the  winds  of  winter 
Their  bugle  blasts  begin, 
The  snowy  hosts  of  heaven  arrive 
To  pitch  their  tents  therein. 


IE   OLD    GRAY  WALL. 

'I ME  out  of  mind  I  have  stood 
Fronting  the  frost  and  the  sun, 
That  the  dream  of  the  world  might  endure, 
And  the  goodly  will  be  done. 


T 


Did  the  hand  of  the  builder  guess, 
As  he  laid  me  stone  by  stone, 
A  heart  in  the  granite  lurked, 
Patient  and  fond  as  his  own? 


Lovers  have  leaned  on  me 
Under  the  summer  moon, 
And  mowers  laughed  in  my  shade 
In  the  harvest  heat  at  noon. 


Children  roving  the  fields  ^ayiLll. 

With  early  flowers  in  spring, 

Old  men  turning  to  look, 

When  they  heard  a  bluebird  sing, 

And  travellers  along  the  road 
From  rising  to  setting  sun, 
Have  seen,  yet  imagined  not 
The  kindness  they  gazed  upon. 

Ah,  when  will  ye  understand, 
Mortals,  — nor  deem  it  odd,  — 
Who  rests  on  this  old  gray  wall 
Lays  a  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  God  ! 


BLOODROOT. 

WHEN  April  winds  arrive 
And  the  soft  rains  are  here, 
Some  morning  by  the  roadside 
These  gipsy  folk  appear. 

We  never  see  their  coming, 
However  sharp  our  eyes; 
Each  year  as  if  by  magic 
They  take  us  by  surprise. 

Along  the  ragged  woodside 
And  by  the  green  spring-run, 
Their  small  white  heads  are  nodding 
And  twinkling  in  the  sun. 

3 


Bloodroot.       They  crowd  across  the  meadow 
In  innocence  and  mirth, 
As  if  there  were  no  sorrow 
In  all  the  lovely  earth. 

So  frail,  so  unregarded,  — 
And  yet  about  them  clings 
That  exquisite  perfection, 
The  soul  of  common  things  ! 

Think  you  the  springing  pastures 
Their  starry  vigil  kept, 
To  hear  along  the  midnight 
Some  message,  while  we  slept  ? 

How  else  should  spring  requicken 

Such  glory  in  the  sod  ? 

I  guess  that  trail  of  beauty 

Is  where  the  angel  trod. 


EARTH   VOICES. 

I 
HEARD  the  spring  wind  whisper 
Above  the  brushwood  fire, 
"  The  world  is  made  forever 
Of  transport  and  desire. 


I 


"  I  am  the  breath  of  being, 
The  primal  urge  of  things  ; 
I  am  the  whirl  of  star  dust, 
I  am  the  lift  of  wings. 


"  I  am  the  splendid  impulse  •f arth 

That  comes  before  the  thought,  oue*' 
The  joy  and  exaltation 
Wherein  the  life  is  caught. 

"  Across  the  sleeping  furrows 
I  call  the  buried  seed, 
And  blade  and  bud  and  blossom 
Awaken  at  my  need. 

"  Within  the  dying  ashes 
I  blow  the  sacred  spark, 
And  make  the  hearts  of  lovers 
To  leap  against  the  dark." 

II 
I  heard  the  spring  light  whisper 
Above  the  dancing  stream, 
"  The  world  is  made  forever 
In  likeness  of  a  dream. 

"  I  am  the  law  of  planets, 
I  am  the  guide  of  man  ; 
The  evening  and  the  morning 
Are  fashioned  to  my  plan. 

"  I  tint  the  dawn  with  crimson, 
I  tinge  the  sea  with  blue; 
My  track  is  in  the  desert, 
My  trail  is  in  the  dew. 

"  I  paint  the  hills  with  color, 
And  in  my  magic  dome 
I  light  the  star  of  evening 
To  steer  the  traveller  home. 


Earth  "Within  the  house  of  beiru 


Voices. 


I  feed  the  lamp  of  truth 
With  tales  of  ancient  wisdom 
And  prophecies  of  youth." 


Ill 

I  heard  the  spring  rain  murmur 
Above  the  roadside  flower, 
"  The  world  is  made  forever 
In  melody  and  power. 


"  I  keep  the  rhythmic  measure 
That  marks  the  steps  of  time, 
And  all  my  toil  is  fashioned 
To  symmetry  and  rhyme. 


"  I  plow  the  untilled  upland, 
I  ripe  the  seeding  grass, 
And  fill  the  leafy  forest 
With  music  as  I  pass. 


"  I  hew  the  raw  rough  granite 
To  loveliness  of  line, 
And  when  my  work  is  finished, 
Behold,  it  is  divine  ! 


"  I  am  the  master-builder 
In  whom  the  ages  trust. 
I  lift  the  lost  perfection 
To  blossom  from  the  dust." 


]  y  Earth 

Then  Earth  to  them  made  answer, 
As  with  a  slow  refrain 
Born  of  the  blended  voices 
'Of  wind  and  sun  and  rain, 

"This  is  the  law  of  being 
That  links  the  threefold  chain : 
The  life  we  give  to  beauty 
Returns  to  us  again." 


NOW   IS   THE   TIME   OF  YEAR. 
[OW  is  the  time  of  year 

When  all  the  flutes  begin, — 
The  redwing  bold  and  clear, 
The  rainbird  far  and  thin. 


N' 


In  all  the  waking  lands 
There  's  not  a  wilding  thing 
But  knows  and  understands 
The  burden  of  the  spring. 

Now  every  voice  alive 

By  rocky  wood  and  stream 

Is  lifted  to  revive 

The  ecstasy,  the  dream. 

For  Nature,  never  old, 
But  busy  as  of  yore, 
From  sun  and  rain  and  mould 
Is  making  spring  once  more. 

7 


Now  is  the      she  sounds  her  magic  note 

l  tme  of  Y ear.  t>        •  j  i.mi 

By  river-marge  and  hill, 
And  every  woodland  throat 
Re-echoes  with  a  thrill. 

O  mother  of  our  days, 
Hearing  thy  music  call, 
Teach  us  to  know  thy  ways 
And  fear  no  more  at  all ! 


NOW   THE   LILAC   TREE'S    IN   BUD 
'OW  the  lilac  tree  's  in  bud, 

And  the  morning  birds  are  loud. 
Now  a  stirring  in  the  blood 
Moves  the  heart  of  every  crowd. 


N' 


Word  has  gone  abroad  somewhere 
Of  a  great  impending  change. 
There  's  a  message  in  the  air 
Of  an  import  glad  and  strange. 

Not  an  idler  in  the  street, 
But  is  better  off  to-day. 
Not  a  traveller  you  meet, 
But  has  something  wise  to  say. 

Now  there 's  not  a  road  too  long, 
Not  a  day  that  is  not  good, 
Not  a  mile  but  hears  a  song 
Lifted  from  the  misty  wood. 


Down  along  the  Silvermine  rtTe's'inB^d 

That 's  the  blackbird's  cheerful  note  ! 
You  can  see  him  flash  and  shine 
With  the  scarlet  on  his  coat. 

Now  the  winds  are  soft  with  rain, 
And  the  twilight  has  a  spell, 
Who  from  gladness  could  refrain 
Or  with  olden  sorrows  dwell  ? 


THE   REDWING. 

HEAR  you,  Brother,  I  hear  you, 
Down  in  the  alder  swamp, 
Springing  your  woodland  whistle 
To  herald  the  April  pomp ! 


I 


First  of  the  moving  vanguard, 
In  front  of  the  spring  you  come, 
WThere  flooded  waters  sparkle 
And  streams  in  the  twilight  hum. 

You  sound  the  note  of  the  chorus 
By  meadow  and  woodland  pond, 
Till,  one  after  one  up-piping, 
A  myriad  throats  respond. 

I  see  you,  Brother,  I  see  you, 
V/ith  scarlet  under  your  wing, 
Flash  through  the  ruddy  maples, 
Leading  the  pageant  of  spring. 

9 


The  Red-    Earth  has  put  off  her  raiment 


lumg. 


Wintry  and  worn  and  old, 

For  the  robe  of  a  fair  young  sibyl, 

Dancing  in  green  and  gold. 

I  heed  you,  Brother.     To-morrow 
I,  too,  in  the  great  employ, 
Will  shed  my  old  coat  of  sorrow 
For  a  brand-new  garment  of  joy. 


AN   APRIL   MORNING. 

ONCE  more  in  misted  April 
The  world  is  growing  green. 
Along  the  winding  river 
The  plumey  willows  lean. 


Beyond  the  sweeping  meadows 
The  looming  mountains  rise, 
Like  battlements  of  dreamland 
Against  the  brooding  skies. 

In  every  wooded  valley 
The  buds  are  breaking  through, 
As  though  the  heart  of  all  things 
No  languor  ever  knew. 

The  golden-wings  and  bluebirds 
Call  to  their  heavenly  choirs. 
The  pines  are  blued  and  drifted 
With  smoke  of  brushwood  fires. 


And  in  my  sister's  garden  An  April 

Where  little  breezes  run,  Mormng. 

The  golden  daffodillies 
Are  blowing  in  the  sun. 


THE   SOUL  OF   APRIL. 

|VER  the  wintry  threshold 
Who  comes  with  joy  to-day, 
So  frail,  yet  so  enduring, 
To  triumph  o'er  dismay  ? 


a 


Ah,  quick  her  tears  are  springing, 
And  quickly  they  are  dried, 
For  sorrow  walks  before  her, 
But  gladness  walks  beside. 

She  comes  with  gusts  of  laughter, 
The  music  as  of  rills  ; 
With  tenderness  and  sweetness,  — 
The  wisdom  of  the  hills. 

Her  hands  are  strong  to  comfort, 
Her  heart  is  quick  to  heed. 
She  knows  the  signs  of  sadness, 
She  knows  the  voice  of  need. 

There  is  no  living  creature, 
However  poor  or  small, 
But  she  will  know  its  trouble, 
And  hasten  to  its  call. 


The  Soul    Oh,  well  they  fare  forever, 
of  April,     gy  mighty  dreams  possessed, 

Whose  hearts  have  lain  a  moment 

On  that  eternal  breast. 


THE   RAINBIRD. 

HEAR  a  rainbird  singing 
Far  off.     How  fine  and  clear 
His  plaintive  voice  comes  ringing 
With  rapture  to  the  ear ! 


I 


Over  the  misty  wood-lots, 
Across  the  first  spring  heat, 
Comes  the  enchanted  cadence, 
So  clear,  so  solemn-sweet. 

How  often  I  have  hearkened 
To  that  high  pealing  strain 
Across  wild  cedar  barrens, 
Under  the  soft  gray  rain  ! 

How  often  I  have  wondered, 
And  longed  in  vain  to  know 
The  source  of  that  enchantment, 
That  touch  of  human  woe ! 

O  brother,  who  first  taught  thee 
To  haunt  the  teeming  spring 
With  that  sad  mortal  wisdom 
Which  only  age  can  bring? 


LAMENT. 

WHEN  you  hear  the  white-throat  pealing 
From  a  tree-top  far  away, 
And  the  hills  are  touched  with  purple 
At  the  borders  of  the  day ; 

When  the  redwing  sounds  his  whistle 
At  the  coming  on  of  spring, 
And  the  joyous  April  pipers 
Make  the  alder  marshes  ring ; 

When  the  wild  new  breath  of  being 
Whispers  to  the  world  once  more, 
And  before  the  shrine  of  beauty 
Every  spirit  must  adore ; 

When  long  thoughts  come  back  with  twilight, 
And  a  tender  deepened  mood 
Shows  the  eyes  of  the  beloved 
Like  hepaticas  in  the  wood ; 

Ah,  remember,  when  to  nothing 
Save  to  love  your  heart  gives  heed, 
And  spring  takes  you  to  her  bosom,  — 
So  it  was  with  Golden  Weed  ! 


N' 


3RENODY   FOR   A   POET. 
[OT  in  the  ancient  abbey, 
Nor  in  the  city  ground, 
Not  in  the  lonely  mountains, 
Nor  in  the  blue  profound, 
Lay  him  to  rest  when  his  time  is  come 
And  the  smiling  mortal  lips  are  dumb  ; 

13 


Threnody  But  here  in  the  decent  quiet 

for  a  Poet.  Tjncier  the  whispering  pines, 

Where  the  dogwood  breaks  in  blossom 
And  the  peaceful  sunlight  shines, 
Where  wild  birds  sing  and  ferns  unfold, 
When  spring  comes  back  in  her  green  and  gold. 

And  when  that  mortal  likeness 

Has  been  dissolved  by  fire, 

Say  not  above  the  ashes, 

"Here  ends  a  man's  desire." 

For  every  year  when  the  bluebirds  sing, 

He  shall  be  part  of  the  lyric  spring. 

Then  dreamful-hearted  lovers 

Shall  hear  in  wind  and  rain 

The  cadence  of  his  music, 

The  rhythm  of  his  refrain, 

For  he  was  a  blade  of  the  April  sod 

That  bowed  and  blew  with  the  whisper  of  God. 


UNDER   THE   APRIL   MOON. 

OH,  well  the  world  is  dreaming 
Under  the  April  moon, 
Her  soul  in  love  with  beauty, 
Her  senses  all  a-swoon ! 


Pure  hangs  the  silver  crescent 
Above  the  twilight  wood, 
And  pure  the  silver  music 
Wakes  from  the  marshy  flood. 

14 


O  Earth,  with  all  thy  transport,         Under  the 
How  comes  it  life  should  seem  ^iooil. 

A  shadow  in  the  moonlight, 
'A  murmur  in  a  dream  ? 


SPRING   NIGHT. 

IN  the  wondrous  star-sown  night, 
In  the  first  sweet  warmth  of  spring, 
I  lie  awake  and  listen 
To  hear  the  glad  earth  sing. 

I  hear  the  brook  in  the  wood 
Murmuring,  as  it  goes, 
The  song  of  the  happy  journey 
Only  the  wise  heart  knows. 

I  hear  the  trilling  note 
Of  the  tree-frog  under  the  hill, 
And  the  clear  and  watery  treble 
Of  his  brother,  silvery  shrill. 

And  then  I  wander  away 

Through  the  mighty  forest  of  Sleep, 

To  follow  the  fairy  music 

To  the  shore  of  an  endless  deep. 


o 


EARLY   MAY. 

MY  dear,  the  world  to-day 
Is  more  lovely  than  a  dream  ! 
Magic  hints  from  far  away 
Haunt  the  woodland,  and  the  stream 
Murmurs  in  his  rocky  bed 
Things  that  never  can  be  said. 

15 


in  Early    Starry  dogwood  is  in  flower, 
ay'  Gleaming  through  the  mystic  woods. 

It  is  beauty's  perfect  hour 
In  the  wild  spring  solitudes. 
Now  the  orchards  in  full  blow 
Shed  their  petals  white  as  snow. 

All  the  air  is  honey-sweet 
With  the  lilacs  white  and  red, 
Where  the  blossoming  branches  meet 
In  an  arbor  overhead. 
And  the  laden  cherry  trees 
Murmur  with  the  hum  of  bees. 

All  the  earth  is  fairy  green, 
And  the  sunlight  filmy  gold, 
Full  of  ecstasies  unseen, 
Full  of  mysteries  untold. 
Who  would  not  be  out-of-door, 
Now  the  spring  is  here  once  more  ! 


FIREFLIES. 

THE  fireflies  across  the  dusk 
Are  flashing  signals  through  the  gloom 
Courageous  messengers  of  light 
That  dare  immensities  of  doom. 

About  the  seeding  meadow-grass, 
Like  busy  watchmen  in  the  street, 
They  come  and  go,  they  turn  and  pass, 
Lighting  the  way  for  Beauty's  feet. 

16 


Or  up  they  float  on  viewless  wings       Fireflies. 
To  twinkle  high  among  the  trees, 
And  rival  with  soft  glimmerings 
The  shining  of  the  Pleiades. 

The  stars  that  wheel  above  the  hill 
Are  not  more  wonderful  to  see, 
Nor  the  great  tasks  that  they  fulfil 
More  needed  in  eternity. 


THE   GARDEN   OF   DREAMS. 

MY  heart  is  a  garden  of  dreams 
Where  you  walk  when  day  is  done, 
Fair  as  the  royal  flowers, 
Calm  as  the  lingering  sun. 


Never  a  drouth  comes  there, 
Nor  any  frost  that  mars, 
Only  the  wind  of  love 
Under  the  early  stars,  — 

The  living  breath  that  moves 
Whispering  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  voice  of  God  in  the  dusk 
Of  the  garden  long  ago. 


17 


GARDEN    SHADOWS. 

WHEN  the  dawn  winds  whisper 
To  the  standing  corn, 
And  the  rose  of  morning 
From  the  dark  is  born, 
All  my  shadowy  garden 
Seems  to  grow  aware 
Of  a  fragrant  presence, 
Half  expected  there. 

In  the  golden  shimmer 
Of  the  burning  noon, 
When  the  birds  are  silent 
And  the  poppies  swoon, 
Once  more  I  behold  her 
Smile  and  turn  her  face, 
With  its  infinite  regard, 
Its  immortal  grace. 

When  the  twilight  silvers 
Every  nodding  flower, 
And  the  new  moon  hallows 
The  first  evening  hour, 
Is  it  not  her  footfall 
Down  the  garden  walks, 
Where  the  drowsy  blossoms 
Slumber  on  their  stalks  ? 

In  the  starry  quiet, 
When  the  soul  is  free, 
And  a  vernal  message 
Stirs  the  lilac  tree, 
Surely  I  have  felt  her 
Pass  and  brush  my  cheek, 
With  the  eloquence  of  love 
That  does  not  need  to  speak ! 

18 


GARDEN    MAGIC. 

WITHIN  my  stone-walled  garden 
(I  see  her  standing  now, 
Uplifted  in  the  twilight, 
With  glory  on  her  brow !) 

I  love  to  walk  at  evening 
And  watch,  when  winds  are  low, 
The  new  moon  in  the  tree-tops, 
Because  she  loved  it  so  ! 

And  there  entranced  I  listen, 
While  flowers  and  winds  confer, 
And  all  their  conversation 
Is  redolent  of  her. 

I  love  the  trees  that  guard  it, 
Upstanding  and  serene, 
So  noble,  so  undaunted, 
Because  that  was  her  mien. 

I  love  the  brook  that  bounds  it, 
Because  its  silver  voice 
Is  like  her  bubbling  laughter 
That  made  the  world  rejoice. 

I  love  the  golden  jonquils, 
Because  she  used  to  say, 
If  Soul  could  choose  a  color 
It  would  be  clothed  as  they. 

I  love  the  blue-gray  iris, 
Because  her  eyes  were  blue, 
Sea-deep  and  heaven-tender 
In  meaning  and  in  hue. 

19 


Garden     I  love  the  small  wild  roses, 
Magic.      j$ecause  she  used  to  stand 
Adoringly  above  them 
And  bless  them  with  her  hand. 

These  were  her  boon  companions. 
But  more  than  all  the  rest 
I  love  the  April  lilac, 
Because  she  loved  it  best. 

Soul  of  undying  rapture ! 
How  love's  enchantment  clings, 
With  sorcery  and  fragrance, 
About  familiar  things ! 


NEW   ENGLAND   JUNE. 
'T'HESE  things  I  remember 
*■    Of  New  England  June, 
Like  a  vivid  day-dream 
In  the  azure  noon, 
While  one  haunting  figure 
Strays  through  every  scene, 
Like  the  soul  of  beauty 
Through  her  lost  demesne. 

Gardens  full  of  roses 
And  peonies  a-blow 
In  the  dewy  morning, 
Row  on  stately  row, 
Spreading  their  gay  patterns, 
Crimson,  pied  and  cream, 
Like  some  gorgeous  fresco 
Or  an  Eastern  dream. 
20 


Nets  of  waving  sunlight  <?  N>'v 

Falling  through  the  trees;  June'.'"" 

Fields  of  gold-white  daisies 
Rippling  in  the  breeze  ; 
Lazy  lifting  groundswells, 
Breaking  green  as  jade 
On  the  lilac  beaches, 
Where  the  shore-birds  wade. 

Orchards  full  of  blossom, 
Where  the  bob-white  calls 
And  the  honeysuckle 
Climbs  the  old  gray  walls; 
Groves  of  silver  birches, 
Beds  of  roadside  fern, 
In  the  stone-fenced  pasture 
At  the  river's  turn. 

Out  of  every  picture 
Still  she  comes  to  me 
With  the  morning  freshness 
Of  the  sitfnmer  sea,  — 
A  glory  iti  her  bearing, 
A  sea-light  in  her  eyes, 
As  if  she  could  not  forget 
The  spell  of  Paradise. 

Thrushes  in  the  deep  woods, 
With  their  golden  themes, 
Fluting  like  the  choirs 
At  the  birth  of  dreams. 
Fireflies  in  the  meadows 
At  the  gate  of  Night, 
With  their  fairy  lanterns 
Twinkling  soft  and  bright. 

21 


A  Nnv  Ah,  not  in  the  roses, 

Ejwieand        Nor  the  azure  noon' 

Nor  the  thrushes'  music, 

Lies  the  soul  of  June. 

It  is  something  finer, 

More  unfading  far, 

Than  the  primrose  evening 

And  the  silver  star  ; 

Something  of  the  rapture 

My  beloved  had, 

When  she  made  the  morning 

Radiant  and  glad,  — 

Something  of  her  gracious 

Ecstasy  of  mien, 

That  still  haunts  the  twilight, 

Loving  though  unseen. 

When  the  ghostly  moonlight 
Walks  my  garden  ground, 
Like  a  leisurely  patrol 
On  his  nightly  round, 
These  things  I  remember 
Of  the  long  ago, 
While  the  slumbrous  roses 
Neither  care  nor  know. 


ROADSIDE    FLOWERS. 

WE  are  the  roadside  flowers, 
Straying  from  garden  grounds, 
Lovers  of  idle  hours, 
Breakers  of  ordered  bounds. 


If  only  the  earth  will  feed  us,  Roadside 

If  only  the  wind  be  kind,  Flowers. 

We  blossom  for  those  who  need  us, 
The  stragglers  left  behind. 

And  lo,  the  Lord  of  the  Garden, 
He  makes  his  sun  to  rise, 
And  his  rain  to  fall  like  pardon 
On  our  dusty  paradise. 

On  us  he  has  laid  the  duty, — 
The  task  of  the  wandering  breed,  — 
To  better  the  world  with  beauty, 
Wherever  the  way  may  lead. 

Who  shall  inquire  of  the  season, 
Or  question  the  wind  where  it  blows  ? 
We  blossom  and  ask  no  reason. 
The  Lord  of  the  Garden  knows. 


THE   GARDEN   OF   SAINT   ROSE. 
"HIS  is  a  holy  refuge, 

The  garden  of  Saint  Rose, 
A  fragrant  altar  to  that  peace 
The  world  no  longer  knows. 


T 


Below  a  solemn  hillside, 
Within  the  folding  shade 
Of  overhanging  beech  and  pine 
Its  walls  and  walks  are  laid. 

23 


The  Gar-    Cool  through  the  heat  of  summer, 
iZ'in{        Sti11  as  a  sacred  grove, 
Rose.  It  has  the  rapt  unworldly  air 

Of  mystery  and  love. 

All  day  before  its  outlook 
The  mist-blue  mountains  loom, 
And  in  its  trees  at  tranquil  dusk 
The  early  stars  will  bloom. 

Down  its  enchanted  borders 
Glad  ranks  of  color  stand, 
Like  hosts  of  silent  seraphim 
Awaiting  love's  command. 

Lovely  in  adoration 
They  wait  in  patient  line, 
Snow-white  and  purple  and  deep  gold 
About  the  rose-gold  shrine. 

And  there  they  guard  the  silence, 

While  still  from  her  recess 

Through  sun  and  shade  Saint  Rose  looks  down 

In  mellow  loveliness. 

She  seems  to  say,  "  O  stranger, 
Behold  how  loving  care 
That  gives  its  life  for  beauty's  sake, 
Makes  everything  more  fair ! 

"Then  praise  the  Lord  of  gardens 
For  tree  and  flower  and  vine, 
And  bless  all  gardeners  who  have  wrought 
A  resting  place  like  mine  !  " 
24 


SONGS    OF   THE    GRASS. 
I 

ON   THE   DUNES. 

"ERE  all  night  on  the  dunes 
In  the  rocking  wind  we  sleep, 
Watched  by  the  sentry  stars, 
Lulled  by  the  drone  of  the  deep. 


TT 


Till  hark,  in  the  chill  of  the  dawn 
A  field  lark  wakes  and  cries, 
And  over  the  floor  of  the  sea 
We  watch  the  round  sun  rise. 

The  world  is  washed  once  more 
In  a  tide  of  purple  and  gold, 
And  the  heart  of  the  land  is  filled 
With  desires  and  dreams  untold. 

II 

LORD    OF   MORNING. 

Lord  of  morning,  light  of  day, 
Sacred  color-kindling  sun, 
We  salute  thee  in  the  way,  — 
Pilgrims  robed  in  rose  and  dun. 

For  thou  art  a  pilgrim  too, 
Overlord  of  all  our  band. 
In  thy  fervor  we  renew 
Quests  we  do  not  understand. 

At  thy  summons  we  arise, 
At  thy  touch  put  glory  on, 
And  with  glad  unanxious  eyes 
Take  the  journey  thou  hast  gone. 

25 


Songs  of  J  J  J 

the  Grass.         ^   TRAVELLER. 

Before  the  night-blue  fades 

And  the  stars  are  quite  gone, 

I  lift  my  head 

At  the  noiseless  tread 

Of  the  angel  of  dawn. 

I  hear  no  word,  yet  my  heart 
Is  beating  apace; 
Then  in  glory  all  still 
On  the  eastern  hill 
I  behold  his  face. 

All  day  through  the  world  he  goes, 
Making  glad,  setting  free; 
Then  his  day's  work  done, 
On  the  galleon  sun 
He  sinks  in  the  sea. 

THE   WEED'S    COUNSEL. 

OA/D  a  traveller  by  the  way 
^     Pausing,  "  What  hast  thou  to  say, 
Flower  by  the  dusty  road, 
That  would  ease  a  mortal's  load?" 

Traveller,  hearken  unto  me  ! 
I  will  tell  thee  how  to  see 
Beauties  in  the  earth  and  sky 
Hidden  from  the  careless  eye. 
I  will  tell  thee  how  to  hear 
Nature's  music  wild  and  clear, — 
Songs  of  midday  and  of  dark 
Such  as  many  never  mark, 
Lyrics  of  creation  sung 
Ever  since  the  world  was  young. 

26 


And  thereafter  thou  shalt  know         The 
Neither  weariness  nor  woe.  r/Jzf? 


Counsel. 


Thou  shalt  see  the  dawn  unfold 
Artistries  of  rose  and  gold, 
And  the  sunbeams  on  the  sea 
Dancing  with  the  wind  for  glee. 
The  red  lilies  of  the  moors 
Shall  be  torches  on  the  floors, 
Where  the  field-lark  lifts  his  cry 
To  rejoice  the  passer-by, 
In  a  wide  world  rimmed  with  blue 
Lovely  as  when  time  was  new. 

And  thereafter  thou  shalt  fare 
Light  of  foot  and  free  from  care. 

I  will  teach  thee  how  to  find 

Lost  enchantments  of  the  mind 

All  about  thee,  never  guessed 

By  indifferent  unrest. 

Thy  distracted  thought  shall  learn 

Patience  from  the  roadside  fern, 

And  a  sweet  philosophy 

From  the  flowering  locust  tree, — 

While  thy  heart  shall  not  disdain 

The  consolation  of  the  rain. 

Not  an  acre  but  shall  give 

Of  its  strength  to  help  thee  live. 

With  the  many-wintered  sun 
Shall  thy  hardy  course  be  run. 
And  the  bright  new  moon  shall  be 
A  lamp  to  thy  felicity. 

27 


77:*  When  green-mantled  spring  shall  come 

Counsel.      Past  tny  door  with  flute  and  drum, 
And  when  over  wood  and  swamp 
Autumn  trails  her  scarlet  pomp, 
No  misgiving  shalt  thou  know, 
Passing  glad  to  rise  and  go. 

So  thy  days  shall  be  unrolled 
Like  a  wondrous  cloth  of  gold. 

When  gray  twilight  with  her  star 
Makes  a  heaven  that  is  not  far, 
Touched  with  shadows  and  with  dreams, 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  woodland  streams 
Singing  through  the  starry  night 
Holy  anthems  of  delight. 
So  the  ecstasy  of  earth 
Shall  refresh  thee  as  at  birth, 
And  thou  shalt  arise  each  morn 
Radiant  with  a  soul  reborn. 

And  this  wisdom  of  a  day 
None  shall  ever  take  away. 

What  the  secret,  what  the  clew 

The  wayfarer  must  pursue  ? 

Only  one  thing  he  must  have 

Who  would  share  these  transports  brave. 

Love  within  his  heart  must  dwell 

Like  a  bubbling  roadside  well, 

For  a  spring  to  quicken  thought, 

Else  my  counsel  comes  to  naught. 

For  without  that  quickening  trust 

We  are  less  than  roadside  dust. 

28 


This,  O  traveller,  is  my  creed,  —         7*« 
All  the  wisdom  of  the  weed  !  Counsel. 

Then  the  traveller  set  his  pack 
Once  more  on  his  dusty  back, 
And  trudged  on  for  many  a  mile 
Fronting  fortune  with  a  smile. 


L° 


LOCKERBIE    STREET. 

For  the   Birthday  of  James   Whitcomb 
Riley,  October  7,  1914. 
OCKERBIE  STREET  is  a  little  street, 
Just  one  block  long; 
But  the  days  go  there  with  a  magical  air, 
The  whole  year  long. 
The  sun  in  his  journey  across  the  sky 
Slows  his  car  as  he  passes  by; 
The  sighing  wind  and  the  grieving  rain 
Change  their  tune  and  cease  to  complain; 
And  the  birds  have  a  wonderful  call  that  seems 
Like  a  street-cry  out  of  the  land  of  dreams; 
For  there  the  real  and  the  make-believe  meet. 
Time  does  not  hurry  in  Lockerbie  Street. 

Lockerbie  Street  is  a  little  street, 

Only  one  block  long  ; 

But  the  moonlight  there  is  strange  and  fair 

All  the  year  long, 

As  ever  it  was  in  old  romance, 

When  fairies  would  sing  and  fauns  would  dance, 

Proving  this  earth  is  subject  still 

To  a  blithesome  wonder-working  Will, 

29 


Lockerbie    Spreading  beauty  over  the  land, 

That  every  beholder  may  understand 
How  glory  shines  round  the  Mercy-seat. 
That  is  the  gospel  of  Lockerbie  Street. 

Lockerbie  Street  is  a  little  street, 

Only  one  block  long, 

A  little  apart,  yet  near  the  heart 

Of  the  city's  throng. 

If  you  are  a  stranger  looking  to  find 

Respite  and  cheer  for  soul  and  mind, 

And  have  lost  your  way,  and  would  inquire 

For  a  street  that  will  lead  to  Heart's  Desire, — 

To  a  place  where  the  spirit  is  never  old, 

And  gladness   and    love    are    worth    more   than 

gold,  — 
Ask  the  first  boy  or  girl  you  meet ! 
Everyone  knows  where  is  Lockerbie  Street. 

Lockerbie  Street  is  a  little  street, 
Only  one  block  long ; 
But  never  a  street  in  all  the  world, 
In  story  or  song, 

Is  better  beloved  by  old  and  young; 
For  there  a  poet  has  lived  and  sung, 
Wise  as  an  angel,  glad  as  a  bird, 
Fearless  and  fond  in  every  word, 
Many  a  year.     And  if  you  would  know 
The  secret  of  joy  and  the  cure  of  woe, — 
How  to  be  gentle  and  brave  and  sweet, — 
Ask  your  way  to  Lockerbie  Street. 


3° 


B' 


A   PORTRAIT. 

A.    M.    M. 

•  EHOLD  her  sitting  in  the  sun 
This  lovely  April  morn, 
As  eager  with  the  breath  of  life 
As  daffodils  new-born ! 
A  priestess  of  the  toiling  earth, 
Yet  kindred  to  the  spheres, 
A  touch  of  the  eternal  spring 
Is  over  all  her  years. 

No  fashion  frets  her  dignity, 
Untrammeled,  debonair; 
A  fold  of  lace  about  her  throat 
Falls  from  her  whitening  hair. 
A  seraph  visiting  the  earth 
Might  wear  that  fearless  guise, 
The  heartening  regard  of  such 
All-comprehending  eyes. 

How  comes  she  by  preeminence, 
Desired,  beloved,  revered  ? 
Heroic  living  gained  those  heights 
Through  ills  she  never  feared. 
A  spirit  kindly  as  the  dew 
And  daring  as  a  flame, 
With  a  distinguished,  reckless  wit 
No  eighty  years  could  tame. 

A  mother  of  the  Spartan  strain, 

She  held  self-rule  and  sway, 

And  single-handed  braved  the  world 

And  bore  the  prize  away. 

No  task  too  humble  for  her  skill, 

No  worthy  way  too  long; 

She  filled  her  work  with  ecstasy 

And  crowned  it  with  a  song. 

3i 


a  Por-      The  treasures  she  most  dearly  prized 
Were  of  the  rarest  kind  — 
A  gentle  fortitude  of  soul 
And  honesty  of  mind. 
To  feed,  to  clothe,  to  teach,  to  cheer, 
To  guard  and  guide  and  save  — 
These  were  her  fine  accomplishments, 
To  these  her  best  she  gave. 

With  ringing  word  and  instant  cure 
She  draws  from  far  and  near 
The  gay,  the  witty,  the  forlorn, 
Priest,  artist,  beggar,  seer. 
Unhesitant  and  sure  they  come, 
Hearing  the  human  call, 
As  of  a  mighty  motherhood 
That  understands  them  all. 

Ungrudging,  without  grief,  she  lives 
Each  charged  potential  hour, 
Holding  her  loftiness  of  aim 
With  agelessness  of  power. 
Immortal  friendship,  great  with  years  ! 
She  shames  the  faltering, 
And  heartens  every  struggling  hope, 
Like  hyacinths  in  spring ! 


A   REMEMBRANCE. 

HERE  in  lovely  New  England 
When  summer  is  come,  a  sea-turn 
Flutters  a  page  of  remembrance 
In  the  volume  of  long  ago. 

32 


Soft  is  the  wind  over  Grand  Pre",       fr^c"ze'"' 
Stirring  the  heads  of  the  grasses, 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  orchards 
White  with  their  apple-blow. 

There  at  their  infinite  business 
Of  measuring  time  forever, 
Murmuring  songs  of  the  sea, 
The  great  tides  come  and  go. 

Over  the  dikes  and  the  uplands 
Wander  the  great  cloud  shadows, 
Strange  as  the  passing  of  sorrow, 
Beautiful,  solemn,  and  slow. 

For,  spreading  her  old  enchantment 
Of  tender  ineffable  wonder, 
Summer  is  there  in  the  Northland  ! 
How  should  my  heart  not  know  ? 


OFF   MONOMOY. 

HAVE  you  sailed  Nantucket  Sound 
By  lightship,  buoy,  and  bell, 
And  lain  becalmed  at  noon 
On  an  oily  summer  swell  ? 


Lazily  drooped  the  sail, 
Moveless  the  pennant  hung, 
Sagging  over  the  rail 
Idle  the  main  boom  swung ; 

33 


Off  Mono-  The  sea,  one  mirror  of  shine 
moy'  A  single  breath  would  destroy, 

Save  for  the  far  low  line 
Of  treacherous  Monomoy. 

Yet  eastward  there  toward  Spain, 
What  castled  cities  rise 
From  the  Atlantic  plain, 
To  our  enchanted  eyes  ! 

Turret  and  spire  and  roof 
Looming  out  of  the  sea, 
Where  the  prosy  chart  gives  proof 
No  cape  nor  isle  can  be  ! 

Can  a  vision  shine  so  clear 
Wherein  no  substance  dwells? 
One  almost  harks  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  city's  bells. 

And  yet  no  pealing  notes 
Within  those  belfries  be, 
Save  echoes  from  the  throats 
Of  ship-bells  lost  at  sea. 

For  none  shall  anchor  there 
Save  those  who  long  of  yore, 
When  tide  and  wind  were  fair, 
Sailed  and  came  back  no  more. 


And  none  shall  climb  the  stairs 
Within  those  ghostly  towers, 
Save  those  for  whom  sad  prayers 
Went  up  through  fateful  hours. 

34 


O  image  of  the  world,  Off  Mono- 

O  mirage  of  the  sea,  tHOy- 

Cloud-built  and  foam-impearled, 
What  sorcery  fashioned  thee  ? 

What  architect  of  dream, 
What  painter  of  desire, 
Conceived  that  fairy  scheme 
Touched  with  fantastic  fire  ? 

Even  so  our  city  of  hope 
We  mortal  dreamers  rear 
Upon  the  perilous  slope 
Above  the  deep  of  fear; 

Leaving  half-known  the  good 
Our  kindly  earth  bestows, 
For  the  feigned  beatitude 
Of  a  future  no  man  knows. 

Lord  of  the  summer  sea, 
Whose  tides  are  in  thy  hand, 
Into  immensity 
The  vision  at  thy  command 

Fades  now,  and  leaves  no  sign,  — 
No  light  nor  bell  nor  buoy,  — 
Only  the  faint  low  line 
Of  dangerous  Monomoy. 


35 


THE   WORLD   VOICE. 

I  HEARD  the  summer  sea 
Murmuring  to  the  shore 
Some  endless  story  of  a  wrong 
The  whole  world  must  deplore. 


I  heard  the  mountain  wind 
Conversing  with  the  trees 
Of  an  old  sorrow  of  the  hills, 
Mysterious  as  the  sea's. 

And  all  that  haunted  day 
It  seemed  that  I  could  hear 
The  echo  of  an  ancient  speech 
Ring  in  my  listening  ear. 

And  then  it  came  to  me, 

That  all  that  I  had  heard 

Was  my  own  heart  in  the  sea's  voice 

And  the  wind's  lonely  word. 


PHI    BETA   KAPPA   POEM. 

HARVARD,    I914 

SIR,  friends,  and  scholars,  we  are  here  to  serve 
A  high  occasion.     Our  New  England  wears 
All  her  unrivalled  beauty  as  of  old ; 
And  June,  with  scent  of  bayberry  and  rose 
And  song  of  orioles  —  as  she  only  comes 
By  Massachusetts  Bay  —  is  here  once  more, 
Companioning  our  fete  of  fellowship. 

36 


The  open  trails,  South,  West,  and  North,  lead  back  ™fBeta 

From  populous  cities  or  from  lonely  plains,  /w? 

Ranch,  pulpit,  office,  factory,  desk,  or  mill, 

To  this  fair  tribunal  of  ambitious  youth, 

The  shadowy  town  beside  the  placid  Charles, 

Where  Harvard  waits  us  through  the  passing  years, 

Conserving  and  administering  still 

Her  savor  for  the  gladdening  of  the  race. 

Yearly,  of  all  the  sons  she  has  sent  forth, 

And  men  her  admiration  would  adopt, 

She  summons  whom  she  will  back  to  her  side 

As  if  to  ask,  "  How  fares  my  cause  of  truth 

In  the  great  world  beyond  these  studious  walls?" 

Here,  from  their  store  of  life  experience, 

They  must  make  answer  as  grace  is  given  them, 

And  their  plain  creed,  in  verity,  declare. 

Among  the  many,  there  is  sometimes  called 

One  who,  like  Arnold's  scholar  gypsy  poor, 

Is  but  a  seeker  on  the  dusky  way, 

"  Still  waiting  for  the  spark  from  heaven  to  fall." 

He  must  bethink  him  first  of  other  days, 
And  that  old  scholar  of  the  seraphic  smile, 
As  we  recall  him  in  this  very  place 
With  all  the  sweetest  culture  of  his  age, 
His  gentle  courtesy  and  friendliness, 
A  chivalry  of  soul  now  strangely  rare, 
And, that  ironic  wit  which  made  him,  too, 
The  unflinching  critic  and  most  dreaded  foe 
Of  all  things  mean,  unlovely,  and  untrue. 
What  Mr.  Norton  said,  with  that  slow  smile, 
Has  put  the  fear  of  God  in  many  a  heart, 
Even  while  his  hand  encouraged  eager  youth. 

37 


Kaf>pa 
Poem. 


Phi  Beta     From  such  enheartening  who  would  not  dare  to 
speak  — 
Seeing  no  truth  can  be  too  small  to  serve, 
And  no  word  worthless  that  is  born  of  love  ? 
Within  the  noisy  workshop  of  the  world, 
Where  still  the  strife  is  upward  out  of  gloom, 
Men  doubt  the  value  of  high  teaching  —  cry, 
"  What  use  is  learning  ?     Man  must  have  his  will ! 
The  e"lan  of  life  alone  is  paramount ! 
Away  with  old  traditions  !     We  are  free !  " 
So  folly  mocks  at  truth  in  Freedom's  name. 
Pale  Anarchy  leads  on,  with  furious  shriek, 
Her  envious  horde  of  reckless  malcontents 
And  mad  destroyers  of  the  Commonwealth, 
While  Privilege  with  indifference  grows  corrupt, 
Till  the  Republic  stands  in  jeopardy 
From  following  false  idols  and  ideals, 
Though  sane  men  cry  for  honesty  once  more, 
Order  and  duty  and  self-sacrifice. 

Our  world  and  all  it  holds  of  good  for  us 
Our  fathers  and  unselfish  mothers  made, 
With  noble  passion  and  enduring  toil, 
Strenuous,  frugal,  reverent,  and  elate, 
Caring  above  all  else  to  guard  and  save 
The  ampler  life  of  the  intelligence 
And  the  fine  honor  of  a  scrupulous  code  — 
Ideals  of  manhood  touched  with  the  divine. 

For  this  they  founded   these   great   schools  we 

serve, 
Harvard,  Columbia,  Princeton,  Dartmouth,  Yale, 
Amherst  and  Williams,  trusting  to  our  hands 
The  heritage  of  all  they  held  most  high, 
Possessions  of  the  spirit  and  the  mind, 
Investments  in  the  provinces  of  joy. 

33 


Vast  provinces  are  these  !     And  fortunate  they       £hi?eta 
Who  at  their  will  may  go  adventuring  there,  Poe,„. 

Exploring  all  the  boundaries  of  Truth, 
Learning  the  roads  that  run  through  Beauty's  realm, 
Sighting  the  pinnacles  where  Good  meets  God, 
Encompassed  by  the  eternal  unknown  sea  ! 

Even  for  a  little  to  o'erlook  those  lands, 

The  kingdoms  of  Religion,  Science,  Art, 

Is  to  be  made  forever  happier 

With  blameless  memories  that  shall  bring  content 

And  inspiration  for  all  after  days. 

And  fortunate  they  whom  destiny  allows 

To  rest  within  those  provinces  and  serve 

The  dominion  of  ideals  all  their  lives. 

For  whoso  will,  putting  dull  greed  aside, 

And  holding  fond  allegiance  to  the  best, 

May  dwell  there  and  find  fortitude  and  joy. 

In  the  free  fellowship  of  kindred  minds, 
One  band  of  scholar  gypsies  I  have  known, 
Whose  purpose  all  unworldly  was  to  find 
An  answer  to  the  riddle  of  the  Earth  — 
A  key  that  should  unlock  the  book  of  life 
And  secrets  of  its  sorceries  reveal. 

This,  they  discovered,  had  long  since  been  found 

And  laid  aside  forgotten  and  unused. 

Our  dark  young  poet  who  from  Dartmouth  came 

Was  told  the  secret  by  his  gypsy  bride, 

Who  had  it  from  a  master  over  seas, 

And  he  it  was  first  hinted  to  the  band 

The  magic  of  that  universal  lore, 

Before  the  great  Mysteriarch  summoned  him. 

It  was  the  doctrine  of  the  threefold  life, 

The  beginning  of  the  end  of  all  their  doubt. 

39 


Phi  Beta     ln  that  Victorian  age  it  has  become 
r'oem.         S°  much  the  fashion  now  to  half  despise, 
Within  the  shadow  of  Cathedral  walls 
They  had  been  schooled,  and  heard  the  mellow 

chimes 
For  Lenten  litanies  and  daily  prayers, 
With  a  mild,  eloquent,  beloved  voice 
Exhorting  to  all  virtue  and  that  peace 
Surpassing  understanding  —  casting  there 
That  "last  enchantment  of  the  Middle  Age," 
The  spell  of  Oxford  and  her  ritual. 


So  duteous  youth  was  trained,  until  there  grew 
Restive  outreaching  in  men's  thought  to  find 
Some  certitude  beyond  the  dusk  of  faith. 
They  cried  on  mysticism  to  be  gone, 
Mazed  in  the  shadowy  princedom  of  the  soul. 

Then  as  old  creeds  fell  round  them  into  dust, 
They  reached  through  science  to  belief  in  law, 
Made  reason  paramount  in  man,  and  guessed 
At  reigning  mind  within  the  universe. 
Piecing  the  fragments  of  a  fair  design 
With  reverent  patience  and  courageous  skill, 
They  saw  the  world  from  chaos  step  by  step, 
Under  far-seeing  guidance  and  restraint, 
Emerge  to  order  and  to  symmetry, 
As  logical  and  sure  as  music's  own. 


With  Spencer,  Darwin,  Tyndall,  and  the  rest, 
Our  band  saw  roads  of  knowledge  open  wide 
Through  the  uncharted  province  of  the  truth, 
As  on  they  fared  through  that  unfolding  world. 

40 


Yet  there  they  found  no  rest-house  for  the  heart,    ™jf*a 

No  wells  sufficient  for  the  spirit's  thirst,  /w* 

No  shade  nor  glory  for  the  senses  starved.  .  .  . 

Turning  —  they  fled  by  moonlit  trails  to  seek 

The  magic  principality  of  Art, 

Where  loveliness,  not  learning,  rules  supreme. 

They  stood  intoxicated  with  delight  before 

The  poised  unanxious  splendor  of  the  Greek; 

They  mused  upon  the  Gothic  minsters  gray, 

Where  mystic  spirit  took  on  mighty  form, 

Until  their  prayers  to  lovely  churches  turned  — 

(Like  a  remembrance  of  the  Middle  Age 

They   rose   where    Ralph    or    Bertram    dreamed   in 

stone) ; 
Entranced  they  trod  a  painters'  paradise, 
Where  color  wasted  by  the  Scituate  shore 
Between  the  changing  marshes  and  the  sea; 
They  heard  the  golden  voice  of  poesie 
Lulling  the  senses  with  its  last  caress 
In  Tennysonian  accents  pure  and  fine ; 
And  all  their  laurels  were  for  Beauty's  brow, 
Though  toiling  Reason  went  ungarlanded. 


Then  poisonous  weeds  of  artifice  sprang  up, 

Defiling  Nature  at  her  sacred  source  ; 

And  there  the  questing  World-soul  could  not  stay, 

Onward  must  journey  with  the  changing  time, 

To  come  to  this  uncouth  rebellious  age, 

Where  not  an  ancient  creed  nor  courtesy 

Is  underided,  and  each  demagogue 

Cries  some  new  nostrum  for  the  cure  of  ills. 

To-day  the  unreasoning  iconoclast 

Would  scoff  at  science  and  abolish  art, 

To  let  untutored  impulse  rule  the  world. 

4i 


Phi  Beta     Let  learning  perish,  and  the  race  returns 
Poem.         To  that  first  anarchy  from  which  we  came, 
When  spirit  moved  upon  the  deep  and  laid 
The  primal  chaos  under  cosmic  law. 


And  even  now,  in  all  our  wilful  might, 
The  satiated  being  cannot  bide, 
But  to  that  austere  country  turns  again, 
The  little  province  of  the  saints  of  God, 
Where  lofty  peaks  rise  upward  to  the  stars 
From  the  gray  twilight  of  Gethsemane, 
And  spirit  dares  to  climb  with  wounded  feet 
Where  justice,  peace,  and  loving  kindness  are. 
What  says  the  lore  of  human  power  we  hold 
Through  all  these  striving  and  tumultuous  days? 
"  Why  not  accept  each  several  bloom  of  good, 
Without  discarding  good  already  gained, 
As  one  might  weed  a  garden  overgrown  — 
Save  the  new  shoots,  yet  not  destroy  the  old? 
Only  the  fool  would  root  up  his  whole  patch 
Of  fragrant  flowers,  to  plant  the  newer  seed." 


Ah,  softly,  brothers !     Have  we  not  the  key, 

Whose  first  fine  luminous  use  Plotinus  gave, 

Teaching  that  ecstasy  must  lead  the  man  ? 

Three  things,  we  see,  men  in  this  life  require, 

(As  they  are  needed  in  the  universe): 

First  of  all  spirit,  energy,  or  love, 

The  soul  and  mainspring  of  created  things ; 

Next  wisdom,  knowledge,  culture,  discipline, 

To  guide  impetuous  spirit  to  its  goal ; 

And  lastly  strength,  the  sound  apt  instrument, 

Adjusted  and  controlled  to  lawful  needs. 

42 


The  next  world-teacher  must  be  one  whose  word    ^,feta 

Shall  reaffirm  the  primacy  of  soul,  pZm. 

Hold  scholarship  in  her  high  guiding  place, 

And  recognize  the  body's  equal  right 

To  culture  such  as  it  has  never  known, 

In  power  and  beauty  serving  soul  and  mind. 

Inheritors  of  this  divine  ideal, 

With  courage  to  be  fine  as  well  as  strong, 

Shall  know  what  common  manhood  may  become, 

Regain  the  gladness  of  the  sons  of  morn, 

The  radiance  of  immortality. 

Out  of  heroic  wanderings  of  the  past, 
And  all  the  wayward  gropings  of  our  time, 
Unswerved  by  doubt,  unconquered  by  despair, 
The  messengers  of  such  a  hope  must  go ; 
As  one  who  hears  far  off  before  the  dawn, 
On  some  lone  trail  among  the  darkling  hills, 
The  hermit  thrushes  in  the  paling  dusk, 
And  at  the  omen  lifts  his  eyes  to  see 
Above  him,  with  its  silent  shafts  of  light, 
The  sunrise  kindling  all  the  peaks  with  fire. 


MOUNTAIN   GATEWAY. 

I  KNOW  a  vale  where  I  would  go  one  day, 
When  June  comes  back  and  all  the  world 
once  more 
Is  glad  with  summer.     Deep  in  shade  it  lies 
A  mighty  cleft  between  the  bosoming  hills, 
A  cool  dim  gateway  to  the  mountains'  heart. 

43 


A  Moun-     On  either  side  the  wooded  slopes  come  down, 
tain  Gate-    hemlock  and  beech  and  chestnut.     Here  and  there 
VJay'  Through   the    deep    forest    laurel    spreads    and 

gleams, 
Pink-white  as  Daphne  in  her  loveliness. 
Among  the  sunlit  shadows  I  can  see 
That  still  perfection  from  the  world  withdrawn, 
As  if  the  wood-gods  had  arrested  there 
Immortal  beauty  in  her  breathless  flight. 

The  road  winds  in  from  the  broad  river-lands, 
Luring  the  happy  traveller  turn  by  turn 
Up  to  the  lofty  mountains  of  the  sky. 
And  as  he  marches  with  uplifted  face, 
Far  overhead  against  the  arching  blue 
Gray  ledges  overhang  from  dizzy  heights, 
Scarred  by  a  thousand  winters  and  untamed. 

And  where  the  road  runs  in  the  valley's  foot, 
Through  the  dark  woods  a  mountain  stream  comes 

down, 
Singing  and  dancing  all  its  youth  away 
Among  the  boulders  and  the  shallow  runs, 
Where  sunbeams   pierce  and  mossy  tree  trunks 

hang 
Drenched  all  day  long  with  murmuring  sound  and 

spray. 

There  light  of  heart  and  footfree,  I  would  go 
Up  to  my  home  among  the  lasting  hills. 
Nearing  the  day's  end,  I  would  leave  the  road, 
Turn  to  the  left  and  take  the  steeper  trail 
That  climbs  among  the  hemlocks,  and  at  last 
In  my  own  cabin  doorway  sit  me  down, 

44 


Companioned  in  that  leafy  solitude  A  Moun- 

By  the  wood  ghosts  of  twilight  and  of  peace,    ^*      e 
While  evening  passes  to  absolve  the  day 
And  leave  the  tranquil  mountains  to  the  stars. 

And  in  that  sweet  seclusion  I  should  hear, 
Among  the  cool-leafed  beeches  in  the  dusk, 
The  calm-voiced  thrushes  at  their  twilight  hymn. 
So  undistraught,  so  rapturous,  so  pure, 
They  well  might  be,  in  wisdom  and  in  joy, 
The  seraphs  singing  at  the  birth  of  time 
The  unworn  ritual  of  eternal  things. 


THE    HOMESTEAD. 

HERE  we  came  when  love  was  young. 
Now  that  love  is  old, 
Shall  we  leave  the  floor  unswept 
And  the  hearth  acold? 

Here  the  hill-wind  in  the  dusk, 
Wandering  to  and  fro, 
Moves  the  moonflowers,  like  a  ghost 
Of  the  long  ago. 

Here  from  every  doorway  looks 
A  remembered  face, 
Every  sill  and  panel  wears 
A  familiar  grace. 

Let  the  windows  smile  again 
To  the  morning  light, 
And  the  door  stand  open  wide 
When  the  moon  is  bright. 

45 


The  Let  the  breeze  of  twilight  blow 

Homestead.      Through  the  silent  hall) 

And  the  dreaming  rafters  hear 
How  the  thrushes  call. 


Oh,  be  merciful  and  fond 
To  the  house  that  gave 
All  its  best  to  shelter  love, 
Built  when  love  was  brave ! 

Here  we  came  when  love  was  young. 
Now  that  love  is  old, 
Never  let  its  day  be  lone, 
Nor  its  heart  acold  ! 


AT   SUNRISE. 

TOW  the  stars  have  faded 
In  the  purple  chill, 
Lo,  the  sun  is  kindling 
On  the  eastern  hill. 


N* 


Tree  by  tree  the  forest 
Takes  the  golden  tinge, 
As  the  shafts  of  glory 
Pierce  the  summit's  fringe. 

Rock  by  rock  the  ledges 
Take  the  rosy  sheen, 
As  the  tide  of  splendor 
Floods  the  dark  ravine. 

46 


Like  a  shining  angel  At  Sunrise. 

At  my  cabin  door, 

Shod  with  hope  and  silence, 

Day  is  come  once  more. 

Then,  as  if  in  sorrow 
That  you  are  not  here, 
All  his  magic  beauties 
Gray  and  disappear. 


AT   TWILIGHT. 

NOW  the  fire  is  lighted 
On  the  chimney  stone, 
Day  goes  down  the  valley, 
I  am  left  alone. 


Now  the  misty  purple 
Floods  the  darkened  vale, 
And  the  stars  come  out 
On  the  twilight  trail. 

The  mountain  river  murmurs 
In  his  rocky  bed, 
And  the  stealthy  shadows 
Fill  the  house  with  dread. 

Then  I  hear  your  laughter 
At  the  open  door,  — 
Brightly  burns  the  fire, 
I  need  fear  no  more. 

47 


NIGHT   LYRIC. 

ON  the  world's  far  edges 
Faint  and  blue, 
Where  the  rocky  ledges 
Stand  in  view, 


Fades  the  rosy  tender 
Evening  light ; 
Then  in  starry  splendor 
Comes  the  night. 

So  a  stormy  lifetime 
Comes  to  close, 
Spirit's  mortal  strifetime 
Finds  repose. 

Faith  and  toil  and  vision 
Crowned  at  last, 
Failure  and  derision 
Overpast, — 

All  the  daylight  splendor 
Far  above, 

Calm  and  sure  and  tender 
Comes  thy  love. 


WEATHER   OF   THE   SOUL. 

THERE  is  a  world  of  being 
We  range  from  pole  to  pole, 
Through  seasons  of  the  spirit 
And  weather  of  the  soul. 
48 


It  has  its  new-born  Aprils,  SJ3fc  °f 

With  gladness  in  the  air, 
Its  golden  Junes  of  rapture, 
Its  winters  of  despair. 

And  in  its  tranquil  autumns 
We  halt  to  re-enforce 
Our  tattered  scarlet  pennons 
With  valor  and  resource. 

From  undiscovered  regions 
Only  the  angels  know, 
Great  winds  of  aspiration 
Perpetually  blow, 

To  free  the  sap  of  impulse 
From  torpor  of  distrust, 
And  into  flowers  of  joyance 
Quicken  the  sentient  dust. 

From  nowhere  of  a  sudden 
Loom  sudden  clouds  of  fault, 
With  thunders  of  oppression 
And  lightnings  of  revolt. 

With  hush  of  apprehension 
And  quaking  of  the  heart, 
There  breed  the  storms  of  anger, 
And  floods  of  sorrow  start. 

And  there  shall  fall,  —  how  gently !  — 
To  make  them  fertile  yet, 
The  rain  of  absolution 
On  acres  of  regret. 

49 


Weatherof     Till  snows  of  mercy  cover 

the  Soul.  The  dream  that  sliau  come  tru6j 

When  time  makes  all  things  wondrous, 
And  life  makes  all  things  new. 


WOODLAND    RAIN. 

SHINING,  shining  children 
Of  the  summer  rain, 
Racing  down  the  valley, 
Sweeping  o'er  the  plain  ! 

Rushing  through  the  forest, 
Pelting  on  the  leaves, 
Drenching  down  the  meadow 
With  its  standing  sheaves  ; 

Robed  in  royal  silver, 
Girt  with  jewels  gay, 
With  a  gust  of  gladness 
You  pass  upon  your  way. 

Fresh,  ah,  fresh  behind  you, 
Sunlit  and  impearled, 
As  it  was  in  Eden, 
Lies  the  lovely  world  ! 


5° 


THE   TENT    OF    NOON. 

BEHOLD,  now,  where  the   pageant  of  high 
June 
Halts  in  the  glowing  noon  ! 
The  trailing  shadows  rest  on  plain  and  hill ; 
The  bannered  hosts  are  still, 
While  over  forest  crown  and  mountain  head 
The  azure  tent  is  spread. 

The  song  is  hushed  in  every  woodland  throat; 

Moveless  the  lilies  float; 

Even  the  ancient  ever-murmuring  sea 

Sighs  only  fitfully; 

The  cattle  drowse  in  the  field-corner's  shade ; 

Peace  on  the  world  is  laid. 


It  is  the  hour  when  Nature's  caravan, 
That  bears  the  pilgrim  Man 
Across  the  desert  of  uncharted  time 
To  his  far  hope  sublime, 
Rests  in  the  green  oasis  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  end  drew  near. 


Ah,  traveller,  hast  thou  naught  of  thanks  or  praise 

For  these  fleet  halcyon  days  ?  — 

No  courage  to  uplift  thee  from  despair 

Born  with  the  breath  of  prayer? 

Then  turn  thee  to  the  lilied  field  once  more ! 

God  stands  in  his  tent  door. 


5* 


SUMMER    STORM. 

'HE  hilltop  trees  are  bowing 
Under  the  coming  of  storm. 
The  low  gray  clouds  are  trailing 
Like  squadrons  that  sweep  and  form, 
With  their  ammunition  of  rain. 


T 


Then  the  trumpeter  wind  gives  signal 
To  unlimber  the  viewless  guns ; 
The  cattle  huddle  together; 
Indoors  the  farmer  runs; 
And  the  first  shot  lashes  the  pane. 

They  charge  through  the  quiet  orchard ; 
One  pear  tree  is  snapped  like  a  wand ; 
As  they  sweep  from  the  shattered  hillside, 
Ruffling  the  blackened  pond, 
Ere  the  sun  takes  the  field  again. 


DANCE   OF   THE    SUNBEAMS. 

WHEN  morning  is  high  o'er  the  hilltops, 
On  river  and  stream  and  lake, 
Wherever  a  young  breeze  whispers, 
The  sun-clad  dancers  wake. 


One  after  one  up-springing, 
They  flash  from  their  dim  retreat. 
Merry  as  running  laughter 
Is  the  news  of  their  twinkling  feet. 

52 


Over  the  floors  of  azure  fhVsiu? 

Wherever  the  wind-flaws  run,        beams'!' 
Sparkling,  leaping,  and  racing, 
Their  antics  scatter  the  sun. 

As  long  as  water  ripples 
And  weather  is  clear  and  glad, 
Day  after  day  they  are  dancing, 
Never  a  moment  sad. 

But  when  through  the  field  of  heaven 
The  wings  of  storm  take  flight, 
At  a  touch  of  the  flying  shadows 
They  falter  and  slip  from  sight. 

Until  at  the  gray  day's  ending, 
As  the  squadrons  of  cloud  retire, 
They  pass  in  the  triumph  of  sunset 
With  banners  of  crimson  fire. 


THE   CAMPFIRE   OF   THE    SUN. 

LO,  now,  the  journeying  sun, 
rf    Another  day's  march  done, 
Kindles  his  campfire  at  the  edge  of  night ! 
And  in  the  twilight  pale 
Above  his  crimson  trail, 
The  stars  move  out  their  cordons  still  and  bright. 

Now  in  the  darkening  hush 

A  solitary  thrush 

Sings  on  iu  silvery  rapture  to  the  deep; 

While  brooding  on  her  best, 

The  wandering  soul  has  rest, 

And  earth  receives  her  sacred  gift  of  sleep. 

53 


MOONRISE. 

AT  the  end  of  the  road  through  the  wood 
I  see  the  great  moon  rise. 
The  fields  are  flooded  with  shine, 
And  my  soul  with  surmise. 


What  if  that  mystic  orb 
With  her  shadowy  beams, 
Should  be  the  revealer  at  last 
Of  my  darkest  dreams ! 

What  if  this  tender  fire 
In  my  heart's  deep  hold 
Should  be  wiser  than  all  the  lore 
Of  the  sages  of  old ! 


THE   QUEEN    OF   NIGHT. 

MORTAL,  mortal,  have  you  seen 
In  the  scented  summer  night, 
Great  Astarte,  clad  in  green 
With  a  veil  of  mystic  light, 
Passing  on  her  silent  way, 
Pale  and  lovelier  than  day? 

Mortal,  mortal,  have  you  heard, 
On  an  odorous  summer  eve, 
Rumors  of  an  unknown  word 
Bidding  sorrow  not  to  grieve, — 
Echoes  of  a  silver  voice 
Bidding  every  heart  rejoice? 

54 


Mortal,  when  the  slim  new  moon       THfiuj%n 
Hangs  above  the  western  hill, 
When  the  year  comes  round  to  June 
And  the  leafy  world  is  still, 
Then,  enraptured,  you  shall  hear 
Secrets  for  a  poet's  ear. 

Mortal,  mortal,  come  with  me, 
When  the  moon  is  rising  large, 
Through  the  wood  or  from  the  sea, 
Or  by  some  lone  river  marge. 
There,  entranced,  you  shall  behold 
Beauty's  self,  that  grows  not  old. 


SUMMER   STREAMS. 

LL  day  long  beneath  the  sun 

Shining  through  the  fields  they  run, 


A1 


Singing  in  a  cadence  known 

To  the  seraphs  round  the  throne. 

And  the  traveller  drawing  near 
Through  the  meadow,  halts  to  hear 

Anthems  of  a  natural  joy 
No  disaster  can  destroy. 

All  night  long  from  set  of  sun 
Through  the  starry  woods  they  run, 

Singing  through  the  purple  dark 
Songs  to  make  a  traveller  hark. 

55 


Summer     All  night  long,  when  winds  are  low, 
streams.     Underneath  my  window  go 

The  immortal  happy  streams, 
Making  music  through  my  dreams. 


THE    GOD   OF  THE    WOOD. 

HERE  all  the  forces  of  the  wood 
As  one  converge, 
To  make  the  soul  of  solitude 
Where  all  things  merge. 

The  sun,  the  rain-wind,  and  the  rain, 
The  visiting  moon, 

The  hurrying  cloud  by  peak  and  plain, 
Each  with  its  boon. 

Here  power  attains  perfection  still 
In  mighty  ease, 

That  the  great  earth  may  have  her  will 
Of  joy  and  peace. 

And  so  through  me,  the  mortal  born 
Of  plasmic  clay, 

Immortal  powers,  kind,  fierce,  forlorn, 
And  glad,  have  sway. 

Eternal  passions,  ardors  fine, 
And  monstrous  fears, 
Rule  and  rebel,  serene,  malign, 
Or  loosed  in  tears ; 

56 


Until  at  last  they  shall  evolve  The  God  of 

From  griefs  and  joys  the  Wood- 

Some  steady  light,  some  firm  resolve, 
Some  Godlike  poise. 


THE   GIFT. 

I  SAID  to  Life,  "  How  comes  it, 
With  all  this  wealth  in  store, 
Of  beauty,  joy,  and  knowledge, 
Thy  cry  is  still  for  more  ? 

"  Count  all  the  years  of  striving 
To  make  thy  burden  less,  — 
The  things  designed  and  fashioned 
To  gladden  thy  success  ! 

"The_  treasures  sought  and  gathered 
Thy  lightest  whim  to  please,  — 
The  loot  of  all  the  ages, 
The  spoil  of  all  the  seas ! 

"  Is  there  no  end  of  labor, 
No  limit  to  thy  need? 
Must  man  go  bowed  forever 
In  bondage  to  thy  greed  ?  " 

With  tears  of  pride  and  passion 
She  answered,  "God  above! 
I  only  wait  the  asking, 
To  spend  it  all  for  love  !  " 

57 


THE    GIVERS    OF   LIFE, 
i. 

WHO  called  us  forth   out   of    darkness   and 
gave  us  the  gift  of  life, 
Who  set  our  hands  to  the  toiling,  our  feet  in  the 
field  of  strife  ? 


Darkly  they  mused,  predestined  to  knowledge  of 

viewless  things, 
Sowing  the  seed  of  wisdom,  guarding  the  living 

springs. 


Little  they  reckoned  privation,  hunger  or  hard- 
ship or  cold, 

If  only  the  life  might  prosper,  and  the  joy  that 
grows  not  old. 


With  sorceries  subtler  than  music,  with  knowl- 
edge older  than  speech, 

Gentle  as  wind  in  the  wheat-field,  strong  as  the 
tide  on  the  beach, 

Out   of   their   beauty  and   longing,  out  of   their 

raptures  and  tears, 
In  patience  and  pride  they  bore  us,  to  war  with 

the  warring  years. 


2. 

Who  looked  on  the  world  before  them,  and  sum- 
moned and  chose  our  sires, 

Subduing  the  wayward  impulse  to  the  will  of 
their  deep  desires? 

58 


Sovereigns  of  ultimate  issues  under  the  greater  The  Givers 

laws,  of  Life. 

Theirs -was  the  mystic  mission  of  the  eternal 
cause ; 

Confident,    tender,  courageous,  leaving   the  low 

for  the  higher, 
Lifting  the  feet   of  the  nations  out  of  the  dust 

and  the  mire  ; 

Luring  civilization  on  to  the  fair  and  new, 
Given   God's    bidding   to   follow,   having   God's 
business  to  do. 

3- 

Who  strengthened  our  souls  with  courage,  and 
taught  us  the  ways  of  Earth  ? 

Who  gave  us  our  patterns  of  beauty,  our  stand- 
ards of  flawless  worth  ? 

Mothers,  unmilitant,  lovely,  moulding  our  man- 
hood then, 

Walked  in  their  woman's  glory,  swaying  the 
might  of  men. 

They  schooled  us  to  service  and  honor,  modest 

and  clean  and  fair,  — 
The  code  of  their  worth  of  living,  taught  with  the 

sanction  of  prayer. 

They  were  our  sharers  of  sorrow,  they  were  our 

makers  of  joy, 
Lighting  the  lamp  of   manhood   in  tne  heart  of 

the  lonely  boy. 

59 


Tiie Givers  Haloed  with  love  and  with  wonder,  in  sheltered 

of  Life.  ways  they  trod; 

Seers  of  sublime  divination,  keeping  the  truce  of 
God. 

4- 
Who  called  us  from   youth   and   dreaming,  and 

set  ambition  alight, 
And  made  us  fit  for  the  contest,  —  men,  by  their 

tender  rite  ? 

Sweethearts    above    our     merit,    charming    our 

strength  and  skill 
To  be  the  pride  of  their  loving,  to  be  the  means 

of  their  will. 


If  we  be  the   builders  of  beauty,  if  we  be  the 

masters  of  art, 
Theirs  were  the  gleaming  ideals,  theirs  the  uplift 

of  the  heart. 

Truly  they   measure   the  lightness   of  trappings 

and  ease  and  fame, 
For  the  teeming  desire  of  their  yearning  is  ever 

and  ever  the  same  : 

To  crown   their  lovers  with  gladness,  to   clothe 

their  sons  with  delight, 
And  see  the  men  of   their  making   lords  in  the 

best  man's  right. 

Lavish  of  joy  and  labor,  broken  only  by  wrong, 
These  are  the  guardians  of  being,  spirited,  sen- 
tient and  strong. 

60 


Theirs  is  the  starry  vision,  theirs  the  inspiriting  The  Givers 

i  of  Life. 

hope,  J 

Since  Night,  the  brooding  enchantress,  promised 
that  day  should  ope. 

Lo,  we  have  built  and  invented,  reasoned,  dis- 
covered and  planned, 

To  rear  us  a  palace  of  splendor,  and  make  us  a 
heaven  by  hand. 

We  are  shaken  with  dark  misgiving,  as  king- 
doms rise  and  fall; 

But  the  women  who  went  to  found  them  are 
never  counted  at  all. 

Versed  in  the  soul's  traditions,  skilled  in  humanity's 

lore, 
They  wait  for  their  crown  of  rapture,  and  weep  for 

the  sins  of  war. 

And  behold  they  turn  from  our  triumphs,  as  it 
was  in  the  first  of  days, 

For  a  little  heaven  of  ardor  and  a  little  hearten- 
ing of  praise. 

These   are  the  rulers  of  kingdoms   beyond  the 

domains  of  state, 
Martyrs  of  all  men's  folly,  over-rulers  of  fate. 

These   we   will   love   and  honor,   these   we   will 

serve  and  defend, 
Fulfilling  the   pride  of   nature,  till    nature   shall 

have  an  end. 

61 


6. 
The  Givers  This  is  the  code  unwritten,  this  is  the  creed  we 
o/Life-  hold, 

Guarding  the  little  and  lonely,  gladdening  the 
helpless  and  old,  — 

Apart  from  the  brunt  of  the  battle  our  wondrous 

women  shall  bide, 
For  the  sake  of  a  tranquil  wisdom  and  the  need 

of  a  spirit's  guide. 

Come  they  into  assembly,  or  keep  they  another 

door, 
Our  makers  of  life  shall  lighten  the  days  as  the 

years  of  yore. 

The  lure  of  their  laughter  shall  lead  us,  the  lilt 

of  their  words  shall  sway. 
Though    life  and  death   should   defeat   us,  their 

solace  shall  be  our  stay. 

Veiled  in  mysterious    beauty,  vested  in  magical 

grace, 
They   have  walked  with    angels  at  twilight   and 

looked  upon  glory's  face. 

Life  we  will  give  for  their  safety,  care  for  their 

fruitful  ease, 
Though  we  break  at  the  toiling   benches  or  go 

down  in  the  smoky  seas. 

This  is  the  gospel  appointed  to  govern  a  world 
of  men, 

Till  love  has  died,  and  the  echoes  have  whis- 
pered the  last  Amen. 

62 


IN   THE   DAY   OF   BATTLE. 
'N  the  day  of  battle, 
In  the  night  of  dread, 
Let  one  hymn  be  lifted, 
Let  one  prayer  be  said. 


r 


Not  for  pride  of  conquest, 
Not  for  vengeance  wrought, 
Nor  for  peace  and  safety 
With  dishonor  bought ! 

Praise  for  faith  in  freedom, 
Our  fighting  fathers'  stay, 
Born  of  dreams  and  daring, 
Bred  above  dismay. 

Prayer  for  cloudles-s  vision, 
And  the  valiant  hand, 
That  the  right  may  triumph 
To  the  last  demand. 


PEACE. 

THE  sleeping  tarn  is  dark 
Below  the  wooded  hill. 
Save  for  its  homing  sounds, 
The  tvvilit  world  grows  still. 

And  I  am  left  to  muse 
In  grave-eyed  mystery, 
And  watch  the  stars  come  out 
As  sandalled  dusk  goes  by. 

63 


Peace.        And  now  the  light  is  gone, 
The  drowsy  murmurs  cease, 
And  through  the  still  unknown 
I  wonder  whence  comes  peace. 

Then  softly  falls  the  word 
Of  one  beyond  a  name, 
"  Peace  only  comes  to  him 
Who  guards  his  life  from  shame,  ■ 

"  Who  gives  his  heart  to  love, 
And  holding  truth  for  guide, 
Girds  him  with  fearless  strength, 
That  freedom  may  abide." 


TREES. 

IN  the  Garden  of  Eden,  planted  by  God, 
There  were  goodly  trees  in  the  springing 
sod,  — 

Trees  of  beauty  and  height  and  grace, 
To  stand  in  splendor  before  His  face. 

Apple  and  hickory,  ash  and  pear, 
Oak  and  beech  and  the  tulip  rare, 

The  trembling  aspen,  the  noble  pine, 
The  sweeping  elm  by  the  river  line ; 

Trees  for  the  birds  to  build  and  sing, 
And  the  lilac  tree  for  a  joy  in  spring; 

64 


Trees  to  turn  at  the  frosty  call 

And  carpet  the  ground  for  their  Lord's  footfall ; 

Trees  for  fruitage  and  fire  and  shade, 
Trees  for  the  cunning  builder's  trade ; 

Wood  for  the  bow,  the  spear,  and  the  flail, 
The  keel  and  the  mast  of  the  daring  sail ; 

He  made  them  of  every  grain  and  girth 
For  the  use  of  man  in  the  Garden  of  Earth. 

Then  lest  the  soul  should  not  lift  her  eyes 
From  the  gift  to  the  Giver  of  Paradise, 

On  the  crown  of  a  hill,  for  all  to  see, 
God  planted  a  scarlet  maple  tree. 


IN    OCTOBER. 

'OW  come  the  rosy  dogwoods, 
The  golden  tulip-tree, 
And  the  scarlet  yellow  maple, 
To  make  a  day  for  me. 


N' 


The  ash-trees  on  the  ridges, 
The  alders  in  the  swamp, 
Put  on  their  red  and  purple 
To  join  the  autumn  pomp. 

The  woodbine  hangs  her  crimson 
Along  the  pasture  wall, 
And  all  the  bannered  sumacs 
Have  heard  the  frosty  call. 

65    ' 


in  October.     Who  then  so  dead  to  valor 
As  not  to  raise  a  cheer, 
When  all  the  woods  are  marching 
In  triumph  of  the  year? 


FIRESIDE   VISION. 

ONCE  I  walked  the  world  enchanted 
Through  the  scented  woods  of  spring, 
Hand  in  hand  with  Love,  in  rapture 
Just  to  hear  a  bluebird  sing. 

Now  the  lonely  winds  of  autumn 
Moan  about  my  gusty  eaves, 
As  I  sit  beside  the  fire 
Listening  to  the  flying  leaves. 

As  the  dying  embers  settle 
And  the  twilight  falls  apace, 
Through  the  gloom  I  see  a  vision 
Full  of  ardor,  full  of  grace. 

When  the  Architect  of  Beauty 
Breathed  the  lyric  soul  in  man, 
Lo,  the  being  that  he  fashioned 
Was  of  such  a  mould  and  plan ! 

Bravely  through  the  deepening  shadows 
Moves  that  figure  half  divine, 
With  its  tenderness  of  bearing, 
With  its  dignity  of  line. 

66 


Eyes  more  wonderful  than  evening   a  Fireside 
With  the  new  moon  on  the  hill,     '      Vlsion- 
Mouth  with  traces  of  God's  humor 
In  its  corners  lurking  still. 

Ah,  she  smiles,  in  recollection  ; 
Lays  a  hand  upon  my  brow  ; 
Rests  this  head  upon  Love's  bosom ! 
Surely  it  is  April  now  ! 


THE   BLUE    HERON. 

I  SEE  the  great  blue  heron 
Rising  among  the  reeds 
And  floating  down  the  wind, 
Like  a  gliding  sail 
With  the  set  of  the  stream. 

I  hear  the  two-horse  mower 
Clacking  among  the  hay, 
In  the  heat  of  a  July  noon, 
And  the  driver's  voice 
As  he  turns  his  team. 

I  see  the  meadow  lilies 

Flecked  with  their  darker  tan, 

The  elms,  and  the  great  white  clouds; 

And  all  the  world 

Is  a  passing  dream. 

67 


WINTER    PIECE. 

OVER  the  rim  of  a  lacquered  bowl, 
Where  a  cold  blue  water-color  stands, 
I  see  the  wintry  breakers  roll 
And  heave  their  froth  up  the  freezing  sands. 

Here  in  immunity  safe  and  dull, 

Soul  treads  her  circuit  of  trivial  things. 

There  soul's  brother,  a  shining  gull, 

Dares  the  rough  weather  on  dauntless  wings. 


THE  GHOST-YARD  OF  THE  GOLDENROD. 

WHEN  the  first  silent  frost  has  trod 
The  ghost-yard  of  the  goldenrod, 

And  laid  the  blight  of  his  cold  hand 
Upon  the  warm  autumnal  land, 

And  all  things  wait  the  subtle  change 
That  men  call  death,  is  it  not  strange 

That  I  — without  a  care  or  need, 
Who  only  am  an  idle  weed  — 

Should  wait  unmoved,  so  frail,  so  bold, 
The  coming  of  the  final  cold  ! 


68 


BEFORE    THE    SNOW. 

NOW  soon,  ah,  very  soon,  I  know 
The  trumpets  of  the  north  will  blow, 
And  the  great  winds  will  come  to  bring 
The  pale  wild  riders  of  the  snow. 


Darkening  the  sun  with  level  flight, 
At  arrowy  speed,  they  will  alight, 
Unnumbered  as  the  desert  sands, 
To  bivouac  on  the  edge  of  night. 

Then  I,  within  their  somber  ring, 
Shall  hear  a  voice  that  seems  to  sing, 
Deep,  deep  within  my  tranquil  heart, 
The  valiant  prophecy  of  spring. 


WINTER  TWILIGHT. 

ALONG  the  wintry  skyline, 
Crowning  the  rocky  crest, 
Stands  the  bare  screen  of  hardwood  trees 
Against  the  saffron  west,  — 
Its  gray  and  purple  network 
Of  branching  tracery 
Outspread  upon  the  lucent  air, 
Like  weed  within  the  sea. 

The  scarlet  robe  of  autumn 

Renounced  and  put  away, 

The  mystic  Earth  is  fairer  still, — 

A  Puritan  in  gray. 

The  spirit  of  the'winter, 

How  tender,  how  austere ! 

Yet  all  the  ardor  of  the  spring 

And  summer's  dream  are  here. 

69 


Winter      Fear  not,  0  timid  lover, 
Twilight.    The  tQuch  Qf  frQSt  and  rjme  , 

This  is  the  virtue  that  sustained 
The  roses  in  their  prime. 
The  anthem  of  the  northwind 
Shall  hallow  thy  despair, 
The  benediction  of  the  snow 
Be  answer  to  thy  prayer. 

And  now  the  star  of  evening 
That  is  the  pilgrim's  sign, 
Is  lighted  in  the  primrose  dusk, — 
A  lamp  before  a  shrine. 
Peace  fills  the  mighty  minster, 
Tranquil  and  gray  and  old, 
And  all  the  chancel  of  the  west 
Is  bright  with  paling  gold. 

A  little  wind  goes  sifting 

Along  the  meadow  floor,  — 

Like  steps  of  lovely  penitents 

Who  sighingly  adore. 

Then  falls  the  twilight  curtain, 

And  fades  the  eerie  light, 

And  frost  and  silence  turn  the  keys 

In  the  great  doors  of  night. 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    CHORAL. 
TJALLELUJA! 

What  sound  is  this  across  the  dark 
While  all  the  earth  is  sleeping  ?  Hark  ! 
Halleluja  /    Halleluja  !    Halleluja  I 

70 


Why  are  thy  tender  eyes  so  bright,         ^j;  j£f 

Mary,  Mary?  choral. 

On*  the  prophetic  deep  of  night 

Joseph,  Joseph, 

I  see  the  borders  of  the  light, 

And  in  the  day  that  is  to  be 

An  aureoled  man-child  I  see, 

Great  love's  son,  Joseph. 

Halleluja  ! 

He  hears  not,  but  she  hears  afar, 
The  Minstrel  Angel  of  the  star. 
Halleluja  /    Halleluja  /    Halleluja  I 

Why  is  thy  gentle  smile  so  deep, 

Mary,  Mary? 

It  is  the  secret  I  must  keep, 

Joseph,  Joseph,  — 

The  joy  that  will  not  let  me  sleep, 

The  glory  of  the  coming  days, 

When  all  the  world  shall  turn  to  praise 

God's  goodness,  Joseph. 

Halleluja  ! 

Clear  as  the  bird  that  brings  the  morn 
She  hears  the  heavenly  ?nusic  borne. 
Halleluja/    Halleluja/   Halleluja/ 

Why  is  thy  radiant  face  so  calm, 

Mary,  Mary? 

His  strength  is  like  a  royal  palm, 

Joseph,  Joseph; 

His  beauty  like  the  victor's  psalm, 

He  moves  like  morning  o'er  the  lands 

And  there  is  healing  in  his  hands 

For  sorrow,  Joseph. 

7i 


A  Christ-   Halleluja  / 

'choral?     Tender  as  deiu-fall  on  the  earth 

She  hears  the  choral  of  love 's  birth. 

Halleluja  /    Hallelicja  !    Halleluja  / 

What  is  the  message  come  to  thee, 

Mary,  Mary? 

I  hear  like  wind  within  th£  tree, 

Joseph,  Joseph, 

Or  like  a  far-off  melody 

His  deathless  voice  proclaiming  peace, 

And  bidding  ruthless  wrong  to  cease, 

For  love's  sake,  Joseph. 


Halleluja  ! 

Moving  as  rain-wind  in  the  spri?ig 
She  hears  the  angel  chorus  ring. 
Halleluja  I    Halleluja  !    Halleluja  .> 

Why  are  thy  patient  hands  so  still, 

Mary,  Mary? 

I  see  the  shadow  on  the  hill, 

Joseph,  Joseph, 

And  wonder  if  it  is  God's  will 

That  courage,  service,  and  glad  youth 

Shall  perish  in  the  cause  of  truth 

Forever,  Joseph. 


Halleluja  ! 

Her  heart  in  that  celestial  chime 
Has  heard  the  harmony  of  time. 
Halleluja !    Halleluja  /    Halleluja  ! 

72 


Why  is  thy  voice  so  strange  and  far,    a  Christ- 
Mary,  Mary?  g£fi- 

.1  see  the  glory  of  the  star, 
Joseph,  Joseph, 

And  in  its  light  all  things  that  are 
Made  glad  and  wise  beyond  the  sway 
Of  death  and  darkness  and  dismay, 
In  God's  time,  Joseph. 

Halleluja  / 

To  every  heart  in  love  V  is  given 
To  hear  the  ecstasy  of  heaven. 
Halleluja  !    Halleluja  /    Halleluja  1 


I 


THE   SENDING   OF   THE   MAGI. 
"N  a  far  Eastern  country 
It  happened  long  of  yore, 
Where  a  lone  and  level  sunrise 
Flushes  the  desert  floor, 
That  three  kings  sat  together 
And  a  spearman  kept  the  door. 

Gaspar,  whose  wealth  was  counted 
By  city  and  caravan  ; 
With  Melchior,  the  seer 
Who  read  the  starry  plan  ; 
And  Balthasar,  the  blameless, 
Who  loved  his  fellow  man. 

There  while  they  talked,  a  sudden 
Strange  rushing  sound  arose, 
And  as  with  startled  faces 
They  thought  upon  their  foes, 
Three  figures  stood  before  them 
In  imperial  repose. 

73 


The  Send-  One  in  flame-gold  and  one  in  blue 
™fagi.        And  one  in  scarlet  clear, 
With  the  almighty  portent 
Of  sunrise  they  drew  near  ! 
And  the  kings  made  obeisance 
With  hand  on  breast,  in  fear. 

"  Arise,"  said  they,  "  we  bring  you 
Good  tidings  of  great  peace  ! 
To-day  a  power  is  wakened 
Whose  working  must  increase, 
Till  fear  and  greed  and  malice 
And  violence  shall  cease." 

The  messengers  were  Michael, 
By  whom  all  things  are  wrought 
To  shape  and  hue  ;  and  Gabriel 
Who  is  the  lord  of  thought; 
And  Rafael  without  whose  love 
All  toil  must  come  to  nought. 

Then  Rafael  said  to  Balthasar, 
"  In  a  country  west  from  here 
A  lord  is  born  in  lowliness, 
In  love  without  a  peer. 
Take  grievances  and  gifts  to  him 
And  prove  his  kingship  clear  ! 

"  By  this  sign  ye  shall  know  him ; 
Within  his  mother's  arm 
Among  the  sweet-breathed  cattle 
He  slumbers  without  harm, 
While  wicked  hearts  are  troubled 
And  tyrants  take  alarm." 

74 


And  Gabriel  said  to  Melchior,  J^ffi* 

"  My  comrade,  I  will  send  Magi. 

-My  star  to  go  before  you, 
That  ye  may  comprehend 
Where  leads  your  mystic  learning 
In  a  humaner  trend." 

And  Michael  said  to  Gaspar, 
"  Thou  royal  builder,  go 
With  tribute  of  thy  riches  ! 
Though  time  shall  overthrow 
Thy  kingdom,  no  undoing 
His  gentle  might  shall  know." 

Then  while  the  kings'  hearts  greatened 

And  all  the  chamber  shone, 

As  when  the  hills  at  sundown 

Take  a  new  glory  on 

And  the  air  thrills  with  purple, 

Their  visitors  were  gone. 

Then  straightway  up  rose  Gaspar, 

Melchior  and  Balthasar, 

And  passed  out  through  the  murmur 

Of  palace  and  bazar, 

To  make  without  misgiving 

The  journey  of  the  Star. 


75 


CHRISTMAS    SONG. 

ABOVE  the  weary  waiting  world, 
.     Asleep  in  chill  despair, 
There  breaks  a  sound  of  joyous  bells 
Upon  the  frosted  air. 
And  o'er  the  humblest  rooftree,  lo, 
A  star  is  dancing  on  the  snow. 

What  makes  the  yellow  star  to  dance 

Upon  the  brink  of  night  ? 

What  makes  the  breaking  dawn  to  glow 

So  magically  bright,  — 

And  all  the  earth  to  be  renewed 

With  infinite  beatitude  ? 

The  singing  bells,  the  throbbing  star, 

The  sunbeams  on  the  snow, 

And  the  awakening  heart  that  leaps 

New  ecstasy  to  know, — 

They  all  are  dancing  in  the  morn 

Because  a  little  child  is  born. 


N< 


WINTER    STREAMS. 

[OW  the  little  rivers  go 

Muffled  safely  under  snow, 

And  the  winding  meadow  streams 
Murmur  in  their  wintry  dreams, 

While  a  tinkling  music  wells 
Faintly  from  their  icy  bells, 

Telling  how  their  hearts  are  bold 
Though  the  very  sun  be  cold. 

76 


Ah,  but  wait  until  the  rain  SK£* 

Comes  a-sighing  once  again, 

Sweeping  softly  from  the  Sound 
Over  ridge  and  meadow  ground ! 

Then  the  little  streams  will  hear 
April  calling  far  and  near,  — 

Slip  their  snowy  bands  and  run 
Sparkling  in  the  welcome  sun. 


77 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


i 


fi 


20m-7,'67(H3149s4) 


PR4441.        AT^> 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY^ACm 


AA    000  3**3. 

DER  AND  GOLD,   [HOLD  \^| 
PLACES   RING  "'' 

OF   THE  SPRING. 

TARY  STAR 
■MEADOW  STREAMS, 
■IS   NOT   FAR 
D 


